


Dog Boy

by brittlelimbs



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: (reyux), Alternate Universe - College/University, Blackmail, Emotional Manipulation, Established Relationship, F/M, Gaslighting, M/M, Master/Pet, Objectification, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Partying, Possessive Behavior, Rape, Sexual Slavery, Stockholm Syndrome, Texting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 20:56:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13644282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlelimbs/pseuds/brittlelimbs
Summary: Ben Solo is a lonely college student with only two friends to his name: Armitage Hux and his oddball girlfriend, Rey. If he can even really call them friends-- when Ben wakes up one morning after a party with no recollection of what happened the night before, things turn sinister, quick.





	Dog Boy

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 reylux not-bang 
> 
> heavy, heavy warnings for this one guys. mind the tags. this story contains an explicit depiction of rape. if these are things that are harmful for you to read about, go no further. this is maybe one of the most fucked up stories i've ever written, but here it is 
> 
> un beta'd

Ben Solo wakes up to the unmistakable feeling of throwing up.

_Fuck_.

He squeezes his eyes shut as the vomit comes in a swell of jerky, unstoppable muscle movement, neck jutting forwards as the puke rises up in a fucking disgusting, acidic wave in his mouth. It trickles hot on his chin, his chest, and the pure revulsion of the taste just fuels more—he rolls onto his side and empties the rest of the contents of his stomach over the edge of his bed. As soon as he can take a shuddering breath, he’s shucking off his soiled sweatshirt over his head and throwing it to the ground, too. _Where’s the trashcan_. He stumbles to standing, careful to avoid the mess on the linoleum, and finds the plastic, brown bin where it sits beside his desk, half full of used jerk-off tissues and Gatorade bottles. He cradles it between his knees as his sits heavily on the edge of the bed, spitting tainted wads of saliva into it as he waits for his stomach to settle. His head is _pounding_ and the light streaming through his shitty dorm room curtains is like a fistful of nails trying to crunch their way through his eye sockets.

After a minute or two of hanging his head low over the bin, nothing else comes up. Thank God, sort of. He feels like death, face pale and clammy, but his stomach seems to be one-and-done with hangover puking, which is the way it usually on the nights when he drinks till he can’t remember his name . He scrubs his mouth with the back of his hand and notices that he’s still wearing his sneakers, laces tied, mud and throwup flecked on the white rubber margin of their soles. His jeans from last night are still on. His hand flies to his back pocket. To his brief moment of relief, he feels the solid leather lump of his wallet, somehow still there despite his luck being complete ass at least eighty percent of the time.

Ben rubs the heel of his hand into the throbbing, soft tissue of his eye socket. The million dollar, movie-cliché question rears its ugly head: _What the fuck happened last night?_

Something about a party at a rugby player’s place. Hux knew a guy who knew a guy who got them in. A basement with low ceilings and a busted keg of and Christmas lights strung up on the walls to shed as little light as possible on the whole grimy situation, sardine-crammed with way too many sweaty young adults for Ben’s particular comfort level. He couldn’t really tell if the shortness of breath was from claustrophobia or excitement. Hux’s girlfriend, Rey, sweet and scraggly and swiveling to Lil Yachty, or maybe just somebody that Ben thought sounded like Lil Yachty, squashed too close to him when everyone started stripping off their shirts at midnight as accorded by some sort of college tradition he had never heard of.

Rey had been wearing a lime green sports bra, full stop.

The next event directly after that had been feeling of spitting up last night’s Karkov and cherry-red jungle juice all over himself. Ben stares at his sad pile of puke on the floor, right there next to the basketball sneakers stashed under his bed, and feels another wave of nausea wash over him. He—he needs to clean this up.

He’s bundling up his dirty sheets and sweatshirt into a pile and scheming of ways to shuffle off his mortal coil in the most efficient way possible when he feels a clunky weight in the tangled cotton: his phone. When he finally fishes it out he finds that he has three percent battery charge, in addition to seventeen text messages and three phone calls, all from Hux.

_Double fuck_.

 

Ben scrolls through the stack of messages, most of which are varying Hux-coded ways of saying that Ben needs to get his ass to Hux’s apartment, stat.

 

_dude wht happened last night ????_

His best friend has always been extra as hell, so it’s probably okay to shunt texting Hux underneath getting his life in order on his list of priorities. He throws the phone aside, strips, then keeps cleaning up, trying his best to mop up the sick with his now dirty laundry. He thinks there might be a real mop in the hall closet on his floor. When he comes back from depositing his sheets in the coin-operated washer, padding through the door in socked feet and boxers, he sees that there’s another missed call and text from Hux:

 

_Just come over._

_like right now?_

_Yes._

_just gotta brush teeth_

When he exits the lobby on the ground floor of his dorm his tongue tastes like peppermint but he still feels like shit; guzzled water and Advil slosh uneasily in his emptied stomach. The sparsely populated quad is covered in old, gross snow and brown slush. Not too many people wandering around at—he checks his dying phone— 9:36 on a Saturday morning. The white sky makes his head pound harder as he shoves his cold hands into the pockets of his coat, thankful that Hux’s apartment is close by.

They’d met in Bio 101, a pre-med weed-out course, and Ben could almost say that they’d been friends since, but if he thinks about it, they aren’t exactly—friends. More like brothers in arms, almost. Two soldiers standing next to each other as they look forwards in the trenches towards finding externships and graduating into real adulthood. Hux, an ace student, Ben lagging sorely behind, hanging on by his fingertips from the bottom of the admission bracket with his mediocre SAT scores, honestly unsure of how he got in to the whole small liberal arts system, anyways ( _having a mom who’s a state senator probably helped,_ Hux told him, once, and he’s not wrong). Ben had sat next to him on the first day of class and as the self-imposed seating chart became entrenched over the course of the term, he found himself leaning over to ask the sharp ginger boy next to him to help explain the Krebs cycle. Alleles. Whispering in the back of the lecture hall over power point presentations about how lungs work while Hux toyed with his Japanese-made wristwatch like he was half-bored, half-curious. After some initial who-the-fuck-are-you hostility, he seemed soften into Ben’s persistent, soft questioning, into the pleasure of explaining Bio in terms that Ben could understand. After Ben nearly flunked the first test, Hux offered to tutor him, and they began studying together, crouched over problem sets in a tiny lounge of Hux’s freshman dorm.

That’s where he’d met Rey. He studied her there, too, when neither her nor Hux were looking. Day by day, he parsed through the curtain of her tangled hair, and found a stunning weirdo. A brilliant physicist. An orphan. The backstory came after a week or two of careful conversation: she was born, originally, in some speck in the Arizona desert, and then been shipped off to cold east coast winters in junior high to live with a foster family in Boston. She’d been dating Hux since the sixth grade, and Ben didn’t even think that was possible; he’s always been a little in awe of them (he’s sincerely thankful that everyone that knew him in the sixth grade back in Iowa have long since stopped talking to him so he can just sort of pretend it never happened).

Rey and Hux aren’t friends. But, if pressed, Ben might admit that they’re the only things he’s got at this school that’re even close.

 

When he gets to the apartment, Phasma’s car is parked outside at the curb next to Hux’s Prius. She’s on the women’s volleyball team and is the most mysterious of all the housemates, and Ben’s a little bit terrified of her. He scales the steps, raps his bare knuckles on the front door, then stamps the snow off his boots as he waits for somebody to open it, hoping it isn’t Phasma. He can feel the alcohol beginning to sweat out beneath the uncomfortable husk of his fresh t-shirt and jeans and permeate the yellowed fleece lining of his jacket. There are some muffled footsteps from behind the door and then it’s being cracked open a few scant inches before the footsteps recede again. Definitely Hux, then, stingy about losing precious bodyheat to the Midwest November. Ben heads inside and catches the back of a ginger head and a snatch of a precociously peach pajama set headed quickly up the stairs.

 

Hux and Rey’s bed takes up most of their room and has a ridiculous bedspread printed with planets that’s so obviously Rey’s choice it’s painful. Ben was a little startled by Hux’s living arrangements when they first moved in together, thinking of what his mother would (or wouldn’t) say if he lived with his (non-existent) girlfriend. But they’ve been like this since he’s known them; by this point, it just feels natural. Sometimes he thinks, shyly, of what they must do together in this room, mind full-up of porno clips but completely bereft of any real experience.

On some nights (the bad ones) he lays in bed on his side in his tiny single and ghosts the pads of his fingers over his lips, wondering what it feels like to kiss someone. Wondering---

She’s curled up against the headboard with one of her stuffed bunnies, Hux sitting next to her. Something about it seems off on principle and Ben’s heart picks up its pace as soon as he crosses the threshold.

“You look like shit.” Hux’s voice sounds weird, strained. Ben is reminded of the time he accidentally got frito crumbs in his laptop keyboard. “How much of last night do you remember?”

“Like, not much,” Ben says, guarded, but still irritated, headache taunting him. “How could you tell.” He starts to shrug off his jacket, anxious, now, to hear what the fuck is going on.

Hux just stares at him for a minute, nearly long enough to make Ben slow, then pause has his coat dangles in his grip, wondering if he has something on his face; maybe he didn’t wash all the vomit off? Just the thought sends another dizzy pang through him, and he has to reassess his footing for a second. He notices how Rey is nearly huddled behind Hux, like a spooked animal. He’s never seen her like this.

“Rey? What’s up?” She scoots higher against the headboard. “Are you okay?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Ben, I…have something I need to show you,” Hux says, ignoring the awkward silence. He extends his phone on slender, white fingertips. His nails are subtly manicured, as always; the gesture is too blunt and awkward for the hand that holds it.

“But what’s wrong with—“

“ _Don’t_ talk to her.”

Ben flinches.

 

The video is shitty quality, mostly the loud orange and black fuzz that an iPhone records at night. The cameraman’s work is shoddy as well, swaying clearly with their steps, and it isn’t immediately apparent what’s going on. Ben’s trying to figure out where this is being taken—looks like a back alley, some slot between houses with streetlamp-yellow snow on the ground—when the frame clips towards a large figure, pressed up against the brick. Its images is garbled by the digital eye’s inability to translate shadow, but Ben recognizes the back of his jean jacket by its big Joy Division patch, and soon his lumpy, ugly profile comes into view as well. His first instinct is that he’s doing something embarrassing, caught outside in freezing weather with his dick out, about to take a piss, or maybe vomit; his stomach clenches in a familiar way as he thinks of all the humiliating videos that haunted him in high school. He’s familiar with that kind of cruelty. But then it’s something different, something worse: like the parting of a terrible sea, Ben watches as his body peels away just enough to expose—her.

_Holy shit._

That’s Rey beneath him, pinned to the brick, puffy jacket unzipped and exposing her skimpy party top to the cold night air, squirming. He’s all over her, head and face hunched close to Rey’s, like they’re kissing. A flash of tongue, of teeth.

Ben doesn’t remember one minute of this.

“What the fuck,” he whispers, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand up in horror. His mouth is so dry that it’s suckered in on itself. He can’t look away.

There’s some commotion as he manhandles her into turning around. He takes a handful of her ass and squeezes, then there’s the distinct jangle of belts and rustling of clothing as he starts to work her jeans down her hips. The bright slice of her skin, the tender part at the top of her ass, is jarring in the frame of jangling shadow and orange half-light.

“Jss’ stay still for me,” his own tinny voice slurs.

Soon Rey’s whole ass is exposed to the cold night, obscured by Ben’s boxed out, unsteady legs. His shaking hands nearly drop the phone once he catches more audio over the heavy breathing of the cameraman, who at this point might be Hux. He’s not sure. Her words are slurred, too, beyond blackout level, but undeniably clear, even as Ben sloppily latches to her neck and starts sucking. _No. Stop—Stop--please. Get the fuck offa me. Ben, no, I-- don’t want this--_

Ben feels the bile rise for the second time this morning when he watches his own hand, pixelated and pale, come up to cover her mouth. It slips clumsily at the first try, pushing up her cheek to expose her clenched, wet teeth, then reasserts, clamps over tight. He doesn’t have to see the shadowed space between their bodies to know what he’s doing, knows the stance, knows what he’s making room to do. His hips are moving, snapping forwards, taking in the ugliest manner possible.

 

“What the fuck,” he whispers again, and it feels like his throat has constricted to the size on a dime, words whistling. He can feel Rey and Hux watching him, but his eyes are glued to this and he can’t move. Can’t stop watching himself rape Rey Kenobi, right there in an alleyway filled with partier’s drunken piss and snow. It feels like he’s watching someone else do it; it’s surreal, seeing his downfall unfold on a screen he can hold in one hand.

The same unholy hand that held her mouth so she couldn’t scream.

The words are coming faster than he knows how to stop them. Is this what it feels like to hyperventilate? To pass out? The room swerves dangerously and suddenly the phone has been taken from him; maybe Hux has it, maybe he dropped it. He can’t even bear to look at Rey, choosing to look at his own balled up, empty fists instead.

“Oh my god. I’m—I’m so fucking sorry, Jesus Christ, I. I don’t even know what to say.” He feels himself getting frantic as if it’s happening to somebody else, like he’s sitting on the bed beside his friends and watching as Ben Solo, absolute human garbage, sort of crumples onto rug. “I don’t even know what to say to you right now, how to make it b-better, I’m so fucking sorry—

“Shut up,” says Hux, somewhere above him.

Ben shuts up, though the blubbering just inverts inwards at a breakneck pace. _You monster, you absolute vile piece of shit, how could you do this to Rey, there is nothing you can do to make this better, you heard her BEGGING you to stop and you didn’t._

In a moment of recklessness his eyes flit around Hux, and he can see the bruises on her neck and wrists peeking out from the margin between the blankets and Hux’s t-shirt. His heart tears in two. She looks tiny.

_Broken. You broke her._

“W-What?” he manages, once he realizes that Hux is trying to talk to him, as indicated by the cruel-tight grip jarring him by one shoulder like a fish on a hook.

“—need to listen to me very, very carefully, Ben.” Hux might be fifty feet tall, sitting high above the puddle of his body at the edge of the bed, phone in hand like an executioners blade. Ben can’t decide by his body language if Hux’s putting a barrier between him and Rey or if he’s just trying to be intimidating. Either way, it’s working.

“Are you listening?” Ben’s chin jerks up from where he was studying the smattering of ginger hair on Hux’s knobbly toes, vision blurry, neck slack. The world feels like a fishbowl.

“Yes.”

“Only Rey and I have seen this video.”

Ben’s confused mind wobbles to and fro, half hopeful, half sure it doesn’t matter. He’s hurt Rey, wrecked her, and the whole school will know, soon.

“Nobody else saw or heard what happened last night. I’m certain of this.”

His advisor is going to find out. His brain plumbs the absolute depths: his mother is going to find out. Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Are you listening to me, Ben?”

But that’s all it takes; Ben is already lunging for the phone, savagely ripping it from Hux’s prim little hands in one blinding second, all terror. At once he’s scuttling back until he’s pressed against the wall, hair in his eyes, rug riled up into tall folds beneath his scrambling feet as he tries to push away, away. The phone’s still unlocked. He might still have a chance; all he needs is a second.

“The video’s been encrypted and stored,” Hux says from far away, still on the bed, not a finger lifted. “You can’t delete it.” Ben wrestles with the tiny screen, deleting, then clearing the trash folder, then clearing the trash folder again, running on muscle memory.

“No—!“ Ben barks.  
“And if you try and access it anywhere else, it’s coded to automatically send to a few specific email addresses.” His voice is clipped and cruel.

Ben’s thumbs tremble on the screen for another second or two, before Hux’s phone drops to the hardwood with a dull thud, bouncing off Ben’s seized chest in the on the way down. He curls in on himself like a child, mouth tucked into t-shirt, staring at the dirty floorrunner in front of him.

“Are you listening to me now?”

“Y-yes,” he sobs, voice muffled. This is the most terrifying nightmare he’s ever had and he can’t wait to wake up.

“You need to do _exactly what I say.”_

“Yes.”

“You are going to stay here until Rey comes back. She’s going to bring your things.”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to get your wallet, now.”

Ben can feel the shadow of Hux looming over him, hand slithering into the back pocket of his jeans, and it’s too much. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s rolling into his back.

“That’s _mine!”_

The declaration peters into a wordless scream as he jabs out at Hux’s skinny legs, taking them out from under him, all animal. Hux lands heavily on his side, winded, teeth bared as Ben descends on him, trying to hurt in whatever way he can.

“Rey—“ Hux grits out, all crazy eyes beneath him. “Get it—“

Ben wrestles Hux’s thin wrists until they’re pinned on either side of his head, ginger hair just long enough to fan out across the ground, strands sucked between his pouty lips and caught in his long, white eyelashes. Pretty bastard. His knee tries to come up between Ben’s legs, hard, but Ben twists to avoid it, hanging on tightly. He’s not entirely sure what he’s trying to do—scratch Hux’s eyes out, gauge at his skin, twist his pencil neck until he’s dead on the floor—but he knows could break Hux’s bones underneath his bare hands, right now, absolutely. _Snap_ , like crunching ice between your back molars.

Then all at once Rey’s a hot limpet-weight on his back and there’s a washcloth coming up to his nose and mouth. Ben’s grip is too preoccupied to get his hands up to stop it. He tries to shake her off with savage jerks of his shoulders, but it’s too late; everything’s sweet with a mineral-tang aftertaste, fumes born heavy on his jagged breathing, and time sort of trips in its pace, then stumbles. Movement becomes slowed. Hux’s blinking eyes take a lifetime to close, his lips curling savagely in goofy slow-mo. Ben’s head is becoming too heavy to hold up. Rey’s tiny body weighs one thousand pounds on the bridge of his back. He has to do something, he thinks vaguely as he lets his body go slowly down, down to meet Hux’s soft, pajama-silky chest. It looks so inviting.

He has to…

He has to…

The darkness leaps up, and he can’t remember.

**Author's Note:**

> tbc!! 
> 
> find me @floatin-on-bespin if u dont think im a terrible human being now


End file.
